Postcard from the living.

Four seasons have come and passed us again.

Our kids have grown lankier, funnier, more creative. 

We’re still here.

I dreamt last night of the baby I lost and today I so dearly wanted to call you to talk about her.

But you are gone.

There’s an ache in my throat that just won’t go away.

You are gone. 

You are gone.

We’re still here.

Piecing ourselves back together after The Shattering.

One year on.

The Missing, it stings.

Even when The Living is sweet.

Wishing you were here Rach. 

A Lanyon Farewell.

It's been six long months since my last post. 

I well and truly lost my blogging mojo due to our frenetic pace of life last year. 

But today it came back.

 Today was my best friend's funeral. 

Today, I want to capture the memory of this beautiful creature and share it with the world.

I first met Rach 21 years ago at the church we both attended. Ours was merely an acquaintance back then which was to be expected given the five year age gap. Fast forward almost two decades later. A mutual friend reconnected us when Rach and her husband moved to Canberra on an army posting. I remember how Rach and I clicked immediately on her first visit to my place. We had a wonderful conversation amid the territorial roars emanating from Jack's room. The kids took a little longer to warm to each other that day but eventually they sorted out the pecking order and became fast friends. The fact that faith was still very much at the core of Rach's life but no longer in mine had little bearing on our friendship. We shared a mutual respect for our alternate beliefs and focused on our shared experiences of motherhood.

Her friendship came at a time when I was enduring my second mastectomy and I found her joyful personality and generous spirit so uplifting. We had weekly playdates with our Littles and spent many mornings at Lanyon Homestead, Cotter Dam and various museums and parks around Canberra.

Rach always came armed with crazy strong coffee, a big hug and enough food to feed an army.

We shared all the frustrations, joys and absurdities of motherhood together and it was lovely.

We had so much in common but I never expected to share the same oncologist with Rach.
My darling friend was diagnosed with a rare and extremely aggressive ovarian cancer in 2015. It was an odd experience going back to the chemo room at Canberra Hospital to sit with Rach instead of receiving treatment myself. I was glad that I could draw on my own experience and help look after the kids or be a sounding board when chemo got rough. Things looked positive for a little while and Rach made plans for the family to join Steve on his overseas posting. The day before they were due to fly out she received the news that the cancer had returned and everything was put on hold. They settled in Brisbane to be close to family and a new treatment began. She did everything she possibly could to survive the wretched disease. Her poor body bore the brunt of extreme surgeries and several types of chemo until it just couldn't bounce back anymore. Despite the horror show that played out...she held her head high, kept faith and imparted an immense amount of joy to everyone she came into contact with. She remained the arch nurturer, putting everyone else's welfare before her own.

I flew up to Brisbane a few weeks ago to spend a night with Rach in her room on the palliative care ward. I wish I could express how much of a privilege it was to have that time with her.

My darling friend was in her final weeks and her body was so utterly broken. It was by no means the first time I'd seen a friend in the final stage of cancer, but it was the most heartbreaking. 

It was a privilege to wake whenever she stirred through the night, to help her to the bathroom, chase up pain relief, rub her feet and cool her forehead with a cloth to ease her fever. In the early hours of the morning when she had moments of lucidity we talked about her New Zealand holiday and seeing Adele in concert. The morphine caused her to talk in her sleep and most of the time it was her kids she was talking to. In those pre-dawn hours she woke from a dream in which she wasn't dying. It tore me to pieces when reality dawned on her and she sobbed in my arms. We cried together about the injustice of it all and how agonizing it was for her to not be around for Addy and Dunc as they grew up. She asked me how many days she had left, to which I said not many. She didn't want to leave everyone, most of all Steve and the kids, but she'd had enough of the incessant pain and was ready to let go.

In the morning, Rach's very dear friend Jules arrived. It was so good to finally meet her in person and so very special to spend that time together. We wrote in birthday cards for the kids when Rach no longer had the strength to do it herself. It was beyond precious and it's something I will never forget.

The time came for me to say my final goodbye. It was so very, very hard to walk out of that room.

 I am so grateful to have had those precious 24hrs with her and say all we wanted to say to each other.

I got the call from Rach's mum 10 days later to say that Rach had passed away peacefully in her sleep. I was home alone at the time and I cried inconsolably for the rest of the day.

I made the decision not to go back to Queensland for the funeral. Out of all the friends I've lost to cancer in the last few years, Rach's death has been the most devastating. I decided instead to go to Lanyon, our favourite place here in Canberra, and have my own private memorial for her.

Lanyon was shrouded in fog when I arrived this morning.

At the time that her funeral was scheduled to start, the fog lifted and the homestead was bathed in brilliant sunshine. So very, very Rach!

I sat with a coffee under the large oak tree where our kids used to make little camp fires out of sticks.

I soaked up the peaceful atmosphere and slowly wandered about the gardens and paddocks photographing everything that was beautiful and beloved to Rach.

At the end of the gravel walk I looked at the view of the gardens and the homestead beyond and had a quiet cry, remembering her, missing her.

I bought a seedling from the little plant stall by the front gate.

It reminded me of the Autumn Plant Fair we went to a couple of years ago with the kids and all the fun we'd had that day. A fitting way to remember my darling friend who adored having her own patch of dirt to grow things in.

She's gone now but her legacy of love and compassion will live on in the people who knew her.
I know that Steve and the kids will somehow get through this awful time with the support of family and friends but I wish to goodness that they didn't have to. I'm a better person for knowing Rach and I'm incredibly grateful for her friendship.

Farewell my beautiful friend.
Sleep tight.

xx Em.

Winter

Its been ever so long between posts...one week has blurred into another and I find myself on the cusp of school holidays wondering how on earth we've reached the middle of the year already?

Winter is here. Short days meld into long nights. A bitter wind cuts through layers and snow covers the peaks of the Brindabellas. The usual busyness of school term has been peppered with vet visits for sick cats, oncology check ups, weekend family hikes and playing local tourist. 

There have been some heartbreaking weeks lately. 

I said goodbye to two very dear friends, both expected but nonetheless a wrench. 

One forever to cancer...

and the other to an army posting.

Annie's death was something I'd been dreading since Christmas. I'm so grateful she's no longer in pain, but so devastated for her. Leaving her four littles behind was something that tore her apart. I didn't cry the week that she passed, I spent days feeling incredibly tired and numb wondering if the tears would fall at all. Its the awful reality of forming friendships in a cancer support group. There comes a time when it feels almost normal to lose one friend after another to this hideous disease. Words feel hollow and meaningless. They don't change anything, they don't make anything better or easier. Cancer is fucking awful, coming back time and again to hurt, destroy and maim. End of story. The tears did eventually roll, on the day of Annie's funeral. I cried not for myself, but for Annie. For the injustice of yet another young mother taken too soon.

A little while before Annie died my oncologist reminded me that if and when my cancer returned, it would be a case of managing my death, not treating the disease. There was a time when that statement would have frightened me, but not now.  I'm weary of all things cancer. I'm done with treatment. I pushed it to the limit and now I'm done. Everyone has their limit, this is mine and I don't regret my choice. My oncologist wasn't happy with my decision but I'm ok with that. If it does come back I'll never know if it was because of my choice or if it was just inevitable, there is no point in feeling guilty. I'm done with guilt and regret. I'm just done. 

The day after I found out about Annie, I had to say goodbye to my best friend Rach who moved interstate. It's not forever thank goodness, but it was a definite wrench at a time when I really could have done with her company. Timing can really suck sometimes. We're hoping to have a final catch up next week while we're in queensland for school hols. She'll be having surgery soon, (fecking cancer) and once she's recovered they'll be heading overseas for a new posting. I already miss our weekly coffee dates and playdates. She's been such a brilliant friend and I love her to bits. 

Some of the satisfying moments of the past few weeks have come from getting lost in sewing. 

I've been busy with custom orders for Puddleducklane Again, gifts for friends and whipping up some travel bags for our road trip. 

We're all packed and ready to hit the road on Wednesday. Poor husband has to stay behind to work and we're going to miss him terribly, but we're so excited to see my family and friends in Qld. 

It's a mammoth 3000km round trip but we break it up into sizable chunks...stopping off in some lovely country towns on the way up and back and staying in an apartment by the beach for the week that we're on the Sunshine Coast.

My trusty camera is coming along so stay tuned for holiday snaps. I promise not to leave it another six weeks between posts. 

xx Em

It aches

Today has been...immensely sad. I am tired. Tired of losing beautiful friends to cancer. No matter how expected the loss is, it is still loss. It aches.

 

My friend Julie has put it into words so perfectly.

 

I slept all afternoon and woke up with my baby boy curled up beside me, fast asleep, his head nestled into my shoulder. Two thoughts came to mind...I am so grateful to be alive and with my Littles...and it is unimaginably cruel that Nat's little girl, the same age as Jack, has lost her mother. Her wonderful, warm, intelligent, kind, gorgeous mother.

 

Earlier this evening I watched the boys play cricket in the backyard and wandered about the garden taking photos.

 

Life goes on doesn't it. I wish it could have gone on for Nat. She fought so hard, endured such brutal treatment. The cruelty of cancer is so awful.

 

 

I am grateful to have known you Nat. To share the devastating lows and fabulous highs within our cancer clique. Missing you already. See you on the other side my beautiful friend.

 

xx Em

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Sweet Dreams Lovely.

 

 

Am feeling so heavy hearted today.

 

 

 

The weight of loss as cancer steals the life of a beautiful friend at the end of her fight. I'm heartbroken for her family and friends who are grieving for her. I'm heartbroken that she isn't able to live the life she so dearly wanted. I feel so sad for our Cancer support group who are all feeling raw from the news that she has slipped away. We already miss her incredible sense of humour in the midst of the mindfuck that is cancer. She made me laugh so hard once that I snorted coffee out of my nose. That is the kind of awesome woman she is...was...will always be. We knew each other for less than twelve months but by god she made an unforgettable impression on my heart.

 

 

 

These great big uncomfortable sobs have been welling up in my throat and threatening to burst out all day. It feels wrong that life just churns on...but it does. It goes on at 3:30 in the morning when the three year old throws up in my hair and I spend the last few hours before sunrise holding his freshly showered, feverish little body in my arms. It goes on when I discover headlice on the six year old's head and keep him home for the day to treat it. It goes on during my surgeon's appointment to plan the reconstruction of my radiation damaged breast. Life goes on despite the fact that we've lost a most radiant soul.

 

Cancer is the worst kind of thief.

 

Losing Deb is so painfully sad but remembering her infectious sense of humour reminds me to embrace the life that goes on. I am grateful that I can mother my boys and love my husband. There is joy to be found in the little things that make up our day.

 

 

 

 

There is purpose and hope despite The Grim's attempts to pilfer it all.

 

 

 

 

My darling Deb, you've been nothing short of sunshine to me. Thank you for your courage, your openness, your warmth and your hilarity. By God it was a privilege to know you, to share our cancer experiences, to laugh and swear and cry together. I ache for your family and friends...if this is how I feel losing you, their loss is ten times more agonising. I wish we'd had more time.

 

Sweet dreams Lovely...sleep well.

 

xx Em

 

 

 

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